


Stories We Tell Ourselves

by SparkandSmile



Category: Welcome to Night Vale, wtnv
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Driving, Graphic Violence, Homophobia, M/M, Mindful Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkandSmile/pseuds/SparkandSmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isadoro, before he got back to Caesar and the King's Ransom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories We Tell Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> It was an accident, I swear. That said, if anyone's hit their head recently and want me to write something for them, tell me.  
> I wrote this at one AM, any mistakes are mine.

The cold air fought for Isadoro’s attention and he pulled his battered and worn leather jacket tighter against himself to ward it off. He could put the windows up, he knew, but that would deprive anyone else he passed on this god-forsaken strip of road the chance to enjoy Holiday by Greenday, although it must be said that at the volume he was currently blasting the song they would in all likelihood be able to hear it through 5 feet of concrete, let alone a thin sheet of glass. Eventually however he was forced to concede to the chill desert air, and roll his windows up. Grumbling slightly, he commented to himself, or perhaps just to the wide open expanse all around him, “No one ever says how _fucking_ cold it gets out here, in the middle of the night. I’d almost forgotten myself.”

Above him, the bright stars shone, but as he approached the haze of light in the distance they began to be drowned out, until only the brightest remained visible through the bright glow of the street lamps of the small town. Isadoro begrudgingly took his foot off the gas, and slowed to a slightly more legal speed as he cruised through the little town. It was late enough that very few people were out, and the few women that tried to attract his attention with simpering lips and batted eyelashes were easily ignored.

As he neared the outskirts of the little town he faintly heard another beat pulsing over the top of his own. Curiosity, and the knowledge that where there’s music there’s alcohol, beckoned and he soon found himself turning down his Greenday album in order to follow the sound. This proved to be unnecessary, as he eventually came across the source right off the main road that cut through town, seeming to scream at everyone within it that the best thing they could do would be to get out, to leave it to be reclaimed by the sands.

He turned into a dirt lot outside an old bar filled with what seemed to be every trucker, biker and hitchhiker for a hundred miles in any direction, an idea he could readily accept, considering how empty the roads had been that day.

Swinging himself up and out of his car, he reached into the side of the door, and pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses. Thus equipped, he patted the black bonnet, before locking the car and casually making his way to the bar. Upon slipping into the bar he took a moment to scan the room to ensure he wouldn’t bump into any cops, or anyone he owed money to. 

However, he quickly ascertained that any officers of the law who may be in the room were likely engaged in their own law breaking, and more to the point, decidedly off duty. Thus reassured, he made his way to the bar, where he slide silently into one of the rickety high chairs, barely making a sound.

He quickly flagged down the bartender, and ordered several shots of “the strongest stuff they had”. Slamming them down in quick succession, he grinned at the burn in his throat and the warmth in his stomach, and he thrust a large number of loose bills at the young man stood behind the counter, telling him to keep them coming. He was pathetically grateful when the boy did not comment, instead just sliding another drink across to him, a neutral expression on his face. 

Isadoro gave a half sigh, and lifted his glass a half inch to the bartender’s back, before tipping his head back and downing the drink in a single gulp. He hated responsible bartenders with the burning passion of a white hot supernova. He was here to get horribly wasted, not deal with overly curious idiots who just wanted a large tip. Dropping his head onto the counter, he swore to himself, hating his alcohol tolerance.

The scraping of a bar stool next to him alerted him to another’s presence, and he raised his head balefully to glare in the general direction of the other man. To his annoyance, the stranger didn’t leave, instead laughing and, stating the blindingly obvious, told him, “You look like you’re not having the best time, mate. I’m Charlie, and who the hell are you then?”

Isadoro flinched, and replied, “You’re one of those insufferably cheerful people, aren’t you.” After a moment, he murmured back, “I’m Isadoro, and you can stop talking now.”

“Sorry mate, you were right” Charlie grinned back, turing on his stool and leaning back against the bar, “I’m a friendly guy. And you seem like a funny guy.”

Isadoro turned to the man, ready to deliver a scathing tirade, either to incite a fight, or to encourage the other to leave him alone, he wasn’t sure, only to pause as he noticed for the first time that his new friend was rather… well-defined. Narrowing his eyes a touch, he replied with the sharp edge of a challenge on his voice, “If you’re going to stay, you’re going to be blackout drunk.”

Turning to the bartender, he waved him over. “I’d like you to get this gentleman here so drunk he can’t remember his own name. Then I’d like you to do the same to me. Quid pro quo.”

Charlie gave a great bellow of a laugh, grabbing the drink out of the bartender’s hand and gulping it down in one smooth motion. Punching Isadoro in the arm, he grinned and told him jovially, “You’re not such a bad guy after all. Guess you just like seeming mysterious. The chicks must dig it, huh?”

Isadoro barely contained a flinch, instead choosing to reply with a simple, “You’d be surprised how much attention it get’s one.”

Charlie remained either unaware or uncaring of Isadoro’s discomfort, instead replying, “Yeah, well I was a real ladies man back in the day. Course, nowadays I’m lucky if I can talk to one pretty girl without the fucking wife deciding she needs to chew my ear off. How about you, you got a girl?”. Grabbing another of the glasses sat in front of the two men, he took another shot, shuddering a little as the drink passed through him.

Apparently the alcohol here was decent, because Isadoro didn’t even consider the potential ramifications of his reply; he simply replied with a little irritation, “There’s a guy. But it’s complicated.  And it doesn’t exactly stop either of us from fucking other people.”

Charlie’s face lost all of it’s friendly affability, and he replied in a quiet, angry voice, “You a fucking queer?”

Isadoro wasn’t quite incoherent enough to miss the threat in Charlies’s voice, and his hand snuck into his pocket almost of it’s own accord and he pulled out his butterfly knife, which he began to twirl around idly as he replied, “And what if I am? Are you going to hurt me? Kick me out?” leaning towards the other, he gave a humourless, mocking smirk as he commented, “I’d like to see you try.”

Within seconds a fist was flying towards his face, and only a quick reaction saved him from a shattered nose. However, the alcohol, or the unexpectedness, worked against him, as Charlie landing a glancing blow across one cheek, leaving his head spinning and his knife dropping to the floor as his twirling fingers stopped. Within moments, however, the bartender was standing between him and Charlie, shaking perhaps, but steady.

 “Hey, if either of you are gonna start something, you can take it outside, d’ya damn well hear me?” he demanded, glaring first at Charlie, then Isadoro.

Isadoro hesitated, some part of him begging him to do exactly that, before he remembered where he was headed. He snorted, and shook his head, before sliding off his bar stool, perhaps a touch unsteadily, and stooping to grab his knife where it had fallen. “Fuck this.” he announced to the room at large, “None of you are worth my time, and more to the point, I have better ways to kill myself than by a drunk homophobe who wouldn’t even feel bad about it.”

He strode across the centre of the silent room, only a slight unsteadiness to his gait, meeting the eyes of every man staring at him until they looked away. He left without looking back, making his way back to his, intending to finish his journey that night, or crash his car, whichever he ended up doing first. Behind him, he heard the sound of breaking glass and heavy footsteps, but he ignored them instead unlocking his car and beginning to open the door. Instead, a large hand slammed the door closed while another bunched up the shoulder of his jacket and slammed him against the car.

“You don’t get to-“ Charlie began to slur, only to be cut off by Isadodo’s hand smashing up, and into his throat. The man began to back away, gasping for air, however Isadoro stepped forward even as he did so, butterfly knife leaping into his hand and digging into the soft rounded flesh of Charlie’s stomach, just enough to cut through the threadbare fabric of his thin t-shirt and cause a small amount of blood to trickle down his shirt. The white fabric, already sticking to his body from sweat, showed the path of the blood beautifully, quickly dying a bright, brilliant red and spreading the blood out.

“Are we having a problem, _mate_?” Isadoro asked, lip half curling back in a sneer.

Silently, Charlie shook his head. At the slight twist of the knife he seemed to find his voice again, replying with a slight tremor, “No! No problem.”

“I’m glad.” Isadoro replied, flicking his knife closed and stepping back out of the man’s personal space, “I do so hate misunderstandings, don’t you?”. Not waiting for a response, he turned, and headed back to his car.

A kicked pebble and slight rushing noise was the only warning he had, but as high on adrenaline as he was, it was enough. Spinning, he barely avoided the punch, but his knife was already slicing through the air, and the arc of silver was soon followed by red as the new cut across the face of his attacker began to bleed profusely. Within seconds, blood was gushing from Charlie’s face, and Isadoro stepped back to avoid being coated in it.

Looking up towards the bar, he saw a large crowd of men, all obviously having been watching the fight. Not fancying his chances with that many pissed off assholes, he decided it was in his best interests to leave, however before he did so he couldn’t resist the temptation to sweep a bow in the direction of the bar, and call up to them, “Hope you enjoyed the show, folks”.

Sliding back into his car, he fumbled with the keys for one ling moment, before sliding them home and pulling out of the lot in a haze of dust and with the smell of burning rubber following him. Fortunately, he didn’t meet another other cars that night, as he found it difficult to keep his mind on the road, thoughts still partially clouded over with what little alcohol he hadn’t burnt through while fighting.

It wasn’t only the liquor he had imbued that kept him warm, it was also the thought of seeing Caesar again. In his current inebriated state he could freely admit to himself that he had missed Caesar. He knew damn well he was going to fuck everything up for the man, but for now he didn’t care. He still had a pleasant buzz in his veins and the part of him which told him to run had shut up.

As he sped towards The King’s Ransom, he couldn’t help but look forward to seeing Caesar despite everything else. Of course, come morning he had no doubt he’d regret ever even considering it, but for now it seemed like the best idea he’d had in a long time, and by morning he’d be there, for better or for worse.


End file.
